


About The Boy Next Door

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Everyone Is Gay, M/M, Mutual Pining, Neighbors, Teenlock, rugby!john
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-14 00:24:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4543110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sherlock Holmes loved mysteries so much, he became one."</p><p>This fic is abandoned!!!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first fic! This fic was born when I couldn't get the idea of Sherlock being like an unpopular Margo in a Teenlock au. Also John and company on a road trip would be too fun!  
> This chapter is very similar to the intro of Paper Towns, but I promise the whole fic won't be like this!

There are extraordinary things in this world. Miracles, my mum would say. Some things are just too coincidental. It’s like fate intervenes at random points in time, on a whim. My mum would also say that miracles happen to everyone. Some people survive getting struck by lightning. Some people are musical prodigies. Some people build rockets, run countries, discover islands, crack unsolvable codes, or win oscars. I could have been one of these people. But, I was not. I did get one, though, a miracle. It was a different kind, but a miracle all the same: out of all of the houses in Ramsgate, I ended up living on Baker Street, right next to 221. My miracle was William Sherlock Scott Holmes.

Ramsgate was a quiet town. It was relatively small, but only to the point of knowing where most of your classmates lived or being able to bike to the park at a young age. It was large enough to have sections, though. The town center was towards the middle. There, you could find little shops and restaurants with flats above them. That was the quaint part of town, surrounded by old houses full of middle class families. Baker Street was a part of that section. 

Then you had the slightly poorer part of town to the right. The houses there were smaller and beginning to fall apart. That’s were the Tesco was and the local gas station and convenience store simply called “Market”. Kids would go there to get cigarettes or beer, not like the owners cared. Some drug dealers even set up shop behind the place to sell cocaine and heroine. Parents always tell their kids to steer clear of the place, but no one usually does. 

Last, there was of course the left side of Ramsgate: the overly-large new construction houses made of cheap material and home to some of the most pretentious arseholes you’d ever have the pleasure to meet. There used to be old estates in that part of town. Then Kelly Builders came in and bought every single one, knocked them down, and put up the carbon copy McMansions that stand there today. The older families made a huge fuss about it. They claimed it was destroying history and what not. In my opinion, the only real problem that came out of it was some of the families that moved there.

 

So anyway, Sherlock and I were eight and we were neighbors so we would sometimes go out to play and bike around our part of Ramsgate. Or rather, we would bike and Sherlock would observe absolutely every detail of our part of town as I shouted “Brilliant!” every time he said something especially clever.

Though Sherlock and I were friends, I still got nervous at the prospect of seeing him.  
This was, of course, because he was quite possibly the most gorgeous thing I had ever seen. On this particular afternoon, Sherlock wore navy blue trousers and a white button down shirt. His hair hung in loose, dark curls as usual. It is not possible to explain how incredibly cool I found his posh appearance.

Sherlock biked in front of me as always, curls blowing in the wind as we made our way to Ramsgate Park, our favorite place. 

It was August and the heat had settled in, it being the afternoon, causing the sweat on my brow to form faster and the metal on my bike to sting my hands. I was panting slightly when we finally arrived at the park. 

As we chained up our bikes on the rack, Sherlock began talking about his latest experiment, which involved examining various worms in his mother’s garden. I had been to this park many times and could tell when something was different, though I couldn’t place what was. We walked down the path, Sherlock rambling about his findings, when suddenly he tensed visibly and stopped talking.

“John,” Sherlock whispered. It was too quiet, too calm.

I followed his gaze, looking. He lifted a pale hand and pointed towards a large willow tree up ahead. The tree was old and tall, it’s branches dropped gracefully to the ground. I had always liked that tree. It always looked magical in a way. I peered closer, looking for the difference. That’s when I saw it too.

My stomach churned then dropped to my knees. Slightly hidden by the branches, there was a man in a white shirt and dark jeans. He was slumped up against the trunk of the willow. His jaw was slack, but also bent in an unnatural way. Dark blood poured out of his mouth, staining his tan face and dripping down onto his white shirt. There was already dried blood all over him, but something about watching the blood stain the pure surface of his clothes made me gag. His eyes stared ahead, lifeless and empty. 

“He’s dead,” Sherlock mused, stepping closer to the tree. All of the quietness was removed from his tone, replaced with blatant curiosity. 

Sherlock kept creeping closer to the man. I wanted to scream. Run in the opposite direction. Cry. I wished I was a doctor. I wished I could have helped this man. That was the day I vowed to do just that. I would become a doctor and save people from ending up like the corpse that was a few feet away from me.

“Sherlockletsgohome,” I choked out. But of course, he kept peering at the man. His icy eyes blazed with excitement.

“Gun wound,” He said. “But where… Ah! There!” He pointed at a shiny pistol to the left of the man. “Left handed… Recently divorced… Died a couple of hours ago it looks like.”

I was used to Sherlock knowing things like that. He studied things like that. Read books on blood splatters and deduction and criminal science. He was deadly clever, always getting into rows with adults when he knew things about them.

“PleaseSherlockweneedtogohomenowwecan'tdoanythingaboutitplease,” I begged breathlessly. 

“Okay, John,” he stepped away from the body and ran back to the bikes. I let him run ahead so that he didn’t see the tears that began to leak from my eyes. Bile rose in my throat at the thought of the man having been alive mere hours ago. 

We biked home fast. I told my parents immediately, who then phoned the police. They sent me off to take a nap in my room. Later, I went downstairs and was given some tea and my mum explained to me how death is a natural part of life and I shouldn’t be worried about it as long as I stayed safe.

But here’s the thing: two adorable eight year olds found a dead guy in their favorite park slumped up against a tree. That’s traumatic and all, but I didn’t get how I could be so upset about it. I knew people died all the time. Sherlock said that over 56 million people die a day, once. Why wasn’t I upset about all of them? Sherlock never seemed upset about any of that. I told myself I couldn’t get this upset about a person I didn’t even know. Hell, if I got upset every time someone I didn’t know died, I’d be batshit insane. 

 

That night, my mum tucked me into bed and gave me a goodnight kiss on the forehead. As she closed the door behind her, I looked at my clock. 8:30. It’s when I usually went to bed, but I wasn’t tired. The day’s events had left adrenaline thrumming through my body. I wondered if Sherlock was awake, too. If he was thinking about the man. Then I wondered if the man had kids and if they were sad about his death. I turned onto my side and saw Sherlock Holmes standing on the roof outside my window. 

He was very close to the window itself and the glass had fogged up where his mouth was. The moonlight somehow enhanced the icy quality of his blue eyes and caused his sharp cheekbones to become even more prominent. His whole being seemed to glow in the night. 

I walked up to the window and opened it. Sherlock clamored in, heading straight to my bed, and sat down. I did the same. A black notebook sat in his lap. 

“I did an investigation,” he said, trying his best to sound serious and professional. But he couldn’t hide his excitement from me. 

He opened the notebook and glanced down at the writing inside of it. “The man’s name was Barry Berwick. Mrs. Harrison from over on Jay Lane told me. She said that he lived in one of the flats above the shops in town. So I went over and sure enough there were some police from Scotland Yard surrounding the butcher shop. One of them asked if I was from a school paper and I told him school papers were tedious and useless. He said he’d answer my questions as long as I wasn’t. Apparently Barry Berwick was 32 years old. He was the butcher that owned the shop, actually, and the flat above it, too. They wouldn’t let me in though and that’s all they would say. But I met this lady named Martha Hudson who said that she was his neighbor. So I asked her if I could borrow a cup of sugar so I could get into her flat. I asked her about Barry and she told me that it’s indecent for a young man to ask about the deceased, but she talked about him all the same. Mrs. Hudson said that Barry killed himself with a gun, which I already knew from the park. So I asked if she knew why. She told me that his wife wanted to get divorced and he was sad about it.” 

He stopped then, and tucked a few curls behind his ear. We looked at each other for a few moments. I couldn’t help the nervous churn of my stomach as we did so. Sometimes, if he looked at me for too long, I would get butterflies. It would be embarrassing because I would know he knew. 

“Well, lots of people get divorced. Lots of people get sad about it too and they don’t kill themselves,” I replied, not taking my eyes off of Sherlock.

“I know!” He exclaimed. His eyes widened and he leaned closer towards me. “I know John! That’s exactly what I told Mrs. Hudson! And she told me…” He flipped through the notebook until he landed on the particular page he was looking for. “She told me that Barry was troubled. I asked her if he was a criminal or a psychopath of some sort and she laughed a little. So I asked what she meant, then. She just said that i should just pray for him and take the sugar. So I told her that I didn’t pray and sod the sugar and I left.” 

We were both quiet. I wished that he would just keep talking. I loved his voice so much. It was deeper than mine, even at that age. Whenever he talked about things like this, his voice went slightly higher out of excitement and he talked rather quickly. 

Sherlock loved knowing things, learning things. Those were the only times when I saw him smile, when I saw him happy. And for some reason, whenever he shared his findings with me, I always felt important. Like I was a part of something important to Sherlock. I wondered if he knew that his smile was important to me, too. 

“I think I know why he did,” he said. He leaned even further towards me, our noses almost touching. Anything resembling happiness had drained from his face. He stared rather intently back at me, slightly frowning. He looked almost sad. 

“Why did he?” 

“Maybe all the strings inside him broke.” 

While I tried to think of an answer, Sherlock removed himself from the bed and padded over to the window. He climbed out and stood on the part of the roof outside of my room. I walked over and stood to face him. I tried to form words regarding his last sentence, but before I could, he spoke first. 

“Close the window now, John,” Sherlock whispered. I reached up to pull the window down and shut it. I expected Sherlock to leave, but instead he sat down and I did the same. We looked at each other through the clear glass. His hair blew slightly in the wind. I put a hand on the window. He did the same, right on top of mine. 

I don’t remember if Sherlock left first or if I went to bed or if we both fell asleep at the window. It felt like we just gazed at one another for eternity, sitting in silence. So that’s how I remember it, lasting forever. 

Sherlock Holmes loved mysteries. And for all of the years to come that I would know him, I couldn’t shake the idea that maybe he loved mysteries so much, he became one.


	2. An Unexpected Turn

The single most eventful day of my life had a rather annoying start. I woke up to the sound of Harry, my older sister, banging on my door. My alarm clock read 7:03, a time that I usually read while arriving at school.

"Get your lazy arse out of bed! I'm not waiting for you!" Harry yelled, still pounding on the door. So, I got up and got dressed quickly as I could. After searching the front porch for my rugby equipment for a good ten minutes, I was in the passenger seat of our car: a rusty looking, blue Toyota Sienna from the early 2000's. It was an old minivan, not very nice at all, that Harry and I got as a _shared_ birthday present, even though our birthdays are a couple of months apart. I understand why, though, its no secret in our family that money is tight. I wouldn't be bothered, but Harry hogs the car and I rarely get to drive.

While I was irked by the way Harry had woken me up, I was thankful for it, as well as the ride to school. Usually, I got a ride from my best friend, Greg Lestrade, but he had gone to school when we usually do and probably gave up waiting for me a good fifteen minutes before I woke up. We always got to school at 7:00, a half hour before school started, so that we could hang out with the rest of the rugby team before school. I loved just about everyone on the team, which made the time thirty minute slot before classes a hell of a lot more fun. The girls from the cheerleading squad usually joined us, too. Personally, I wasn't a big fan of the very American idea of a bunch of girls cheering me on while I tried to play rugby, but most of the guys certainly thought otherwise. We all met by the pitch, but Greg and I and our closer friends usually broke off into a smaller circle.

That's exactly what happened this particular morning when I arrived at the pitch. 7:10. Not that late. Greg patted me on the back and several of us went off to the side instinctively. He was about a head taller than me, muscular, and very tan. His hair was dark brown, matching his eyes.

"Hello John!" A bright voice said to my right. I turned to see Molly, jogging slightly behind me on her way to join the group. She was a part of the cheer squad and was always beaming like some sort of petite, auburn haired ray of sunshine.

"Ah don't talk to her, John," Greg said, leaning slightly on my shoulder. He jabbed a finger at Molly in mock accusation. "Molly here is going to _prom_." The last word was said the same way one might say "rubbish bin". Which is, essentially, what I thought of prom. "With that Tom bloke." Tom was Molly's boyfriend-of-the-week and was fairly nice, save his not-so-friendly glares at Greg and I whenever we joked too much with her. I don't blame him, though. The three of us have been joined at the hip since year nine, and have grown so close that most people have suspected some romanticism between us.

Molly raised her eyebrows challengingly. "Careful Greg, we all know the reason you don't want to go is because _you_ can't find a date." She smirked. This was, of course, a statement very far from the truth and Molly knew this. While I recognized that a lot of people fancied me, there was no comparison to the amount of girls and blokes that practically lined up for Greg whenever he was available. He never did settle into a relationship, though, just casual shagging. But in his defense, he always took the other party out to a nice dinner. And he had a reputation, people certainly knew what they were getting into.

I glanced up at the giant clock on the scoreboard that stood at to end of the pitch. 7:20. "Greg, we better head to our lockers and head to first period. Bye Moll!" I said. She waved and made her way back to the other girls as Greg and I walked into the school.

We had lockers in the same hallway, but his was father down than mine. He stayed at mine for a while, talking about his plan of action for getting a prom date (yes of course he was going, the whole point of it was to get drunk, dance, and hook up with your date, his three favorite things).

I wasn't listening.

Across the hall, there stood Sherlock Holmes, at his locker with his boyfriend, Jim Moriarty, laughing at something that he said. I couldn't help the jealous prickle that went up my spine. His neck was extended, long and slender, and I could see his collar bone. He was wearing a dark purple button down shirt with black jeans, the dark colors emphasizing the paleness of his skin. I noticed that he was not looking _at_ Jim, but past him. Following his gaze, I saw Victor Trevor talking with some football player, licking his lips very suggestively and leaning towards him. I looked back at Sherlock and smiled, knowing that he couldn't see me.

"Mate, don't go there," Greg chuckled a little and thumped my back, jolting me from my thoughts. "You know what they say about him. Besides, he's Jim's and you don't want to go near anything that's his." I knew that he was right about not going after anything that Jim wanted. I wasn't oblivious to the fact that my friends and I held some power at the school and ranked pretty high on the social ladder. Even so, if there was one person I would never, ever cross, it'd be Jim.

He was terrifying, as was his little group of loyal followers he kept around. Jim could ruin you. Socially, mentally, physically. You name it. The last time someone crossed him, it was Carl Powers last year.

It was one of the rare occasions that Jim and Co. made an appearance at a house party. Carl must have had one too many drinks and started making moves on Sherlock. From what I heard, he cornered him on the second floor and started touching him and shit. Sherlock couldn't shove him off, Carl was a swimmer and one of the fittest blokes in school, and resorted to yelling for Jim until he was found. When Jim did find him, not only did he tear him off Sherlock, but he pushed him down the stairs. Carl only sprained an ankle, but that wasn't the worst of it. The next swim meet, Carl drowns. Drowns. The star swimmer drowns at a meet? Yeah, I wasn't the only person suspicious. There were rumors that Jim had to do with it, even though there was no evidence. But I wouldn't doubt it.

"He's hot, but not that hot," Greg continued. I mentally disagreed. "Do you know who's really hot out of that lot? Irene." Irene Adler was Sherlock's best friend, other than Victor. Sherlock.

"Hey I'm going back to my locker now," he said with another pat on my back. He went down the hallway.

My thoughts drifted back to Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes, those three syllables were always spoken with an air of wonder. His epic adventures spread through the school like wild fire: while traveling in London, Sherlock Holmes was taught to play the violin by the premier conductor at the Globe Theatre. Sherlock Holmes, who posed as a uni professor for 3 days straight and taught the classes so well and so enthusiastically, he was offered a position _even though_ he was only 16. Sherlock Holmes, who went to Sussex monthly to help the local beekeeper with the honey collections. Sherlock Holmes, who could tell anyone their entire life story just by glancing at them. Sherlock Holmes, who once drank earl grey tea with the Violet Caskets backstage at their concert in Manchester while they drank rum. Sherlock Holmes, who got into said concert by telling the bouncer he was the drummer's boyfriend, and they didn't recognize him, come on guys isn't this your job? My name is Sherlock Holmes and if you go and get the drummer and have him take one look at me, he'll either tell you that I am his boyfriend or that he wishes I was, and the bouncer did what he said and the drummer said "yup that's my boyfriend let him in," and then later the drummer wanted to hook up with him and he _rejected the drummer from the Violet Caskets_.

Every story, every time it was shared in class or in the halls, always ended with " _Can you believe it?_ " And while most of us couldn't, they all proved to be the truth. But just because he was a bit of a legend at our school, it didn't mean Sherlock was popular by any means.

In fact, he was treated rather poorly, getting beat up and people hurling insults at him ruthlessly. That is, until Jim asked him out the previous year. Sherlock must have not known that once you invite Jim into your life, it becomes his, too. You become his. Now, he was just another person in Jim's feared little posey, another object for him to put a possessive arm around. It was probably the only thing keeping half of the school from beating the shit out of him on a daily basis. It was also probably the only thing keeping me from making a goddamned move.

I looked back over at Sherlock's locker, hoping to catch one more glimpse of him before first period, but instead I met the angry glares of Jim Moriarty's cold, black eyes and his second-in-command, Sebastian Moran's, hazel ones. I didn't know exactly why they were suddenly staring daggers at me, but I silently prayed they hadn't seen me staring at Sherlock. I bristled at the thought, thinking about Carl, and set off to class.

The rest of the day was uneventful. The occasional laugh in Maths here, a chat with a teammate there. Rugby practice was long and tiring that day, and I had a lot of homework for chemistry as well. By the end of the night, it was 12:18. I was just settling into bed, drifting off to sleep, when suddenly, my window slid up and open.

For the first time in nine years, Sherlock Holmes swiftly climbed into my room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! I've had a lot of soccer practice this week and I've been a mess. Sorry if I get anything wrong with English grades and their corresponding ages. I have double checked that there was prom and cheerleaders over there, though! Thank you for reading and comments are welcome!


	3. The Game Is On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all of the kudos and comments! I'm extremely flattered! The next chapter will be up extremely soon!

I remember the first time Sherlock voluntarily included me in something he was excited about. It was December, I was 10, and it was Christmas holiday. We were in his room and he was telling me about how matter molecules look different depending on what phase they are in. "So molecules in a liquid form will be moving and not as close together as the ones in a solid phase."

I was barely listening. I didn't have a reason to, we had barely started learning about taxonomy, let alone chemistry. But that was Sherlock, always ahead, always looking for something more challenging. The ironic thing was that he would have been at the top of the class if he put in any effort at all during school. He always talked about the things he knew, but he never sounded... interested in what he said.

I watched his curls bounce while he made wild gestures with his hands. Suddenly, I was struck with a question I never knew I always had.

"How do you know all of this stuff, Sherlock?" He blinked.

"Books," He blinked again, then looked a little closer at me, as though I wouldn't believe him. "And it's not stuff, it's science."

"Books from where?" I replied.

"The library."

"What library? Our library doesn't have science books." The library near us was small and filled with fiction and picture books. A children's library.

"The library at my brother's uni. It's filled with science books. There's an entire floor with books just on chemistry. And another on forensics." He was getting more enthusiastic about the conversation, now. I could tell by the way his eyes lit up and he got closer to me, like he was sharing a secret. "Why?"

"I dunno, but that sounds bloody cool. The place sounds huge!" Now I was getting excited. Sherlock's emotions were infectious to me. When he was excited, so was I. Sad? Me too. Mad, scared, annoyed, disgusted? You bet your arse I'm right there. And the few precious moments when I would see him genuinely happy? Well, I would be bursting out of my skin with joy.

"Well... um... maybe you could come with me sometime?" Sherlock's voice went slightly higher on the last word. "I mean it'd probably be terribly boring and Mycroft is always such a prat-"

"I'd love to!" I interrupted. The tips of his ears went red and he looked down.

"Well, alright. Mycroft was going to drive up tomorrow to get a few books, something about a paper that's due. I was going to go to and well- "

"Sounds great! I'll be ready! What time are you leaving?"

"9:30. In the morning. It's usually an all-day trip, because the drive is a few hours."

"Great."

"Okay."

"Well I have to go," I said. "See you tomorrow. Bye!" I got up and walked to the door.

"Bye, John."

~~~~~~

The next day, I went to the Holmes' house at 9:15. It was a good thing I did. Mycroft was already in his car, engine running and everything. Sherlock was not.

Mycroft was 7 years older than us and he was studying government. He looked absolutely nothing like Sherlock, save the pale skin. He wasn't skinny, but he wasn't heavy or very muscular either. Just, normally built, I guess. But that was the only normal thing about him. His hair was a shock of red and, at the time, he had a matching ginger beard. His eyes were darker than Sherlock's, but they had the same look of intelligence. And ever since I can remember, he was the most frightening person I knew. Even the _adults_ he talked to seemed to think of _him_  as the one in charge. Not to mention, he was extremely protective of Sherlock and made sure everyone, including me, knew that he wouldn't hesitate to take care of anyone who did him harm. Sherlock hated him for that.

I got in the car without talking to him. A classical music station was on the radio and he was tapping the steering wheel to the beat of the song playing. Before long, Sherlock opened the door and slid in beside me. Mycroft then pulled out of the driveway and began the journey to the uni library.

It wasn't the longest car ride, only 3 hours. When we finally arrived, Sherlock grabbed my wrist and pulled me up the large stone stairs leading to the door. We stepped inside and the smell of strong coffee and old paper immediately invaded my senses. As did the sight of Sherlock's eyes widening at the sight of all of the mahogany desks and textbook upon textbook stacked on the surrounding shelves.

I had never seen him look like this. It was a strange mix of excitement, curiosity, nervousness, and, to my delight, happiness. It was different than the night he had come into my room to discuss Barry Berwick. That night he was restless and frantic and wholly engrossed in the information he obtained. He was sad at the end, too. He looked heartbroken. This was different. He seemed... at ease.

So, we spent the day at the library. He picked a few large books on toxicology and forensic anthropology and we settled at a desk in the back. Sherlock looked through them while I watched. I watched him for hours, noticing the furrowing of his brows when he read something particularly intriguing. Every now and again, he'd look up and meet my eyes. He'd offer a small smile and I'd return it.

It didn't feel like long before Mycroft had found us and informed us that it was time to go.

On the ride home, it was equally as quiet as it was on the way there. Sherlock turned to me and looked me in the eyes for a long time. "That was fun," I finally said.

"Yeah," He replied. His eyes were shining the way they did when he was _truly_  happy. It made my chest ache. He was _happy_. I never got to see him like this.

"Yeah, John. It was."

~~~~

That's what his eyes looked like now, while he stood in my room in the middle of the night. Shining and mischievous, like always, but with that glint of happiness that is so rarely seen. Maybe that's why I couldn't resist his pleas.

"John please," he whined. Sherlock was wearing all black, from head to toe. Instead of his usual posh clothing, he opted for jeans, a sweatshirt, and Converse.

"Sherlock, I'm not driving you around at 12:30 in the bloody morning just because you told me too. It's not my fault you need a car. And you didn't even tell me what we'd be doing! How can you expect me to agree to this just like that?" After I had let him into my room, he had promptly explained that he needed a car and he needed me to drive it.

"Tonight, we will right many wrongs. John, you and I shall bring justice to a few problems."

"Problems?"

"Yes. There are five problems. But before I reveal my plans, you need to agree to help. And drive."

I groaned. "Sherlock, I've had enough late-night 'adventures' to know that they don't end well. And don't you have other people for this stuff? Wouldn't Jim do this shit _for_  you? And, Jesus, what would he do if he found out I was chauffeuring your arse around in the middle of the night? I might as well be writing my will tonight, too."

He huffed. "Why are you so afraid of him? Why is everyone so afraid of him?"

"You aren't?" I raised an eyebrow.

Sherlock scoffed. "Of course I am. I just know a little more backstory than anyone else. I understand his actions, more. But he's a sodding psychopath, diagnosed and everything. Well, I diagnosed it. But I have a reason to be afraid of him. I know things. _You_ don't."

"The story about Carl is a good enough reason for me. That's true isn't it? And what backstory? He's not some fairytale villain. Everyone goes through shit in life."

Sherlock smirked. "If you help me tonight, I'll answer all of your questions. About any of them. About anyone at all. And I'll give you an explanation for every problem."

"Every problem? I'm guessing Jim is one of these 'problems'?"

He nodded. "The Final Problem," he whispered.

I sighed. "No felonies?" Sherlock shook his head. "When you say 'take care of' you don't mean..."

Sherlock laughed a little. It was low and soft and made my chest flutter. "No John. We won't be murdering anyone tonight. I promise." He was still smiling a little.

I sighed again, mostly because I knew that I couldn't resist the goddamn idiot. I looked up at him. "Okay Sherlock. But all questions answered, every problem explained."

The grin that he broke into was worth any trouble that we might get into. I'd commit a thousand felonies if it meant that Sherlock Holmes would smile like that for the rest of his life. He slipped out of the window.

I quickly got changed into an old t-shirt and faded jeans. I slipped into the hallway, where I knew a small desk was. The desk had one bowl on it that contained two sets of keys: one for my parent's car and the other for the Toyota that Harry and I "shared". I grabbed the keys and swept back into my room. I hastily put on my trainers, crept out of my window, and slid into the driver's seat.

Sherlock was sitting in the passengers seat, smoking a cigarette. I decided not to comment on the health risks and opted for backing out of my driveway instead.

"So where are we off to first?" I asked, feeling the start of the adrenaline rush that came with sneaking out at night. I also felt the beginning of the butterflies that found a home in my stomach whenever I was around the stunning boy who was currently _in my fucking car_.

"Tesco," Sherlock replied, turning to face me with a bright smile. He removed the cigarette from his mouth and blew out a clod of smoke, ethereal eyes glistening all the while.

"The game, John, is on!"


End file.
